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POEMS. 



POEMS. 



BY M. G. LEWIS, ESQ, 






Cur Ego laborcm notus esse tarn stulte, 
Cum stare gratis cum silentio possim ? 

Martial. 



fcoffljon ; 

PRINTED BY D. N. SHURY, BERWICK STREET, SOHO, 
AND SOLD BY 

HATCHARD, 190, PICCADILLY. 
1812. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



I have selected from a great mass of Verses 
such as appeared to myself and my Friends to 
be the least discreditable to their Author : I 
have endeavoured to remove such faults as were 
pointed out to me ; and indeed have bestowed 
more time on their improvement, than such 
trifles can possibly bo worth. I now print 
them, more that I may have the pleasure of 
giving them to those few friends^ whose par- 
tiality will make them blind to their defects, 
than from any hope 4 I:at their merits can re= 
commend them to unprejudiced judges. 

/ M. G. LEWIS 

The Albany, 
December 9, 1811. 



— " Vereri mihi videris, ne majores libelli tui sint, 
quam ipse cs."— • 

Oct. Aug. apud Suetonium, 



/ 



CONTENTS. 



Love at Sale , page 1 

To Vanity 6 

Pleasure and Desire 13 

On Excess • 19 

Crazy Jane 24 

Lines on returning from the Funeral of the 

Right Hon. C. J. Fox 26 

The Lover's Astronomy 36 

Hope and Fear 39 

Lines written on a Journey 41 

To the Hon, Charles W. S. — 45 

Delia to Edmund 47 

The Orphan's Prayer 52 

Laura Vindicated 55 

The Consoler 58 

The Blind Lover 64 

To Georgina . # 67 

On Sorrow 70 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

To my Sister page 75 

The Inconstant's Apology 77 

Love and his Enemy 80 

War, Victory, and Peace • . . 82 

Nanine, or the Emigrant 84 

The Mother's Alarm S7 

The Captive •. . . . 89 

Address to Youth 93 

The Felon 95 

The Fate of Kings 98 



POEMS, 

LOVE AT SALE. 

iThe Idea is taken from a Greek Epigram*) 



Come buy my ware ! come buy ! come buy ! 

Fond youths and curious maids, draw nigh : 
I have this lovely wicked boy to sell. 

Go not, fair girls, his cage too near ! 

Though mild his looks, his arrows fear ; 
Be still, the urchin's faults and merits while I 
tell. 

He in this little form unites 

The pangs of hell, and Heaven's delights ; 
He reigns the lord of every mortal heart : 

He wounds the peasant, wounds the king, 

And is the fairest, falsest thing, 
That e'er excited joy, or bade a bosom smart. 



POEMS. 



Light as the wind, wild as the wave, 

He's both a tyrant and a slave ; 
A fire that freezes, and a frost that's hot ; 

A. bitter sweet, and luscious sour! — 

Wretched is He, who knows his power ; 
Yet far more wretched still is He, who knows it 
not. 

His tongue is with persuasion tipt ; 

His darts in poisoned honey dipt 
Speed to the bosom their unerring flight ; 

His lips are rich in flattering lies, 

And oft a fillet o'er his eyes 
He binds, and so conceals his faults from his 
own sight. 

He has two cheeks of blushing red; 

He has two wings which still are spread, 
When most his stay is wished, most swift to fly: 

He joys in wanton tricks and wiles, 

And mark ! that when he sweetest smiles, 
Then is the rogue most sure those tricks and 
wiles to try. 



POEMS. 



For well alas ! too well I know, 

He is the source of every woe, 
To faith a stranger, 'gainst contrition steeled ; 

But yet when first the false one came, 

And kindled in my heart a flame, 
Who had believed Deceit in such a form con- 
cealed ! 

He begged so gently on my breast 

Awhile his little head to rest ! 
He seemed so good, so grateful, and so meek ! 

He said, " he long had sought around 

u A resting place — but none had found !" — ■ 
And then I saw a tear pearl down his rosy 
cheek. 

Who could, unmoved, his accents hear ? 

Who had not wiped away that tear ? 
His tale of guile my ready ear believed ; 

He looked so sweet, he spoke so fair, 

With ease the traitor gained his prayer, 
And in my heart of hearts with transport was 
received,. 

B 2 



POEMS. 



But since I find, his friends most true 
Have reason most his spite to rue, 

I'll take dear-bought Conviction's sage advice^ 
And drive him from my breast away : 
He shall no more my trust betray, 

But be the slave of him who bids the highest 
price. 

Observe, whoe'er shall buy this boy, 
This offspring of Despair and Joy, 

May have besides, (I've use for them no more) 
A lot of jealous doubts and fears, 
Of fainting Virtue's last pure tears, 

Of treacherous smiles, and oaths which perjured 
lovers swore: 

Of torches, their unsteady fires 
Kindled by sweet Fifteen's desires ; 

Of hopes created by a guileful sigh ; 
Of worn-out wings ; of broken darts, 
"Whose points still rankle in the hearts 

Of fond forsaken maids ! — Come buy ! come 
buy ! come buy ! 



POEMS. 



But see him now for pardon sue ! 

See, how his eye of glossy blue 
With mingled hope and grief he lifts to me ! 

Ah ! lovely boy 5 thy fears dismiss, 

Convinced by that forgiving kiss ? 
That I can never part from Julia and from thee. 



POEMS. 



TO VANITY. 



Oh ! Thou, whom thankless men revile. 

Best soother of their pains ; 
Thou, in whose gay complacent smile 

Eternal sunshine reigns ; 
On wounded pride and feelings sore 
Whose friendly hand can balsam pour, 

And blunt the shafts of scorn ; 
This votive wreath for Thee I twine, 
And bid the Muse thy gaudy shrine, 

Sweet Vanity, adorn I 



POEMS. 



Hark ! — Some, whose pride this name offends, 

My blunt confession blame, 
And while beneath thy sway he bends, 

Each terms thee, u Love of Fame." 
I, [who wherc-ever rests mine eye, 
In various forms thy power descry. 

Employed mankind to bless; J 
Despise such paltry shifts, and dare. 
Kind Vanity, to Thee my prayer 

And grateful verse address. 



The pliant form does Nature cramp 

In rude unsightly cast ? 
Do withered features wear the stamp 

Of many a winter past ? 
To limbs mis-shaped and wrinkled face 
Thy magic glass can easy grace 

And youthful bloom impart ; 
Crimson pale cheeks, blanch sallow hands, 
And squinting eyes at thy commands 

Love's brightest fires can dart. 



POEMS. 



When shallow politicians fain 

Their reasoning powers would show. 
Thou bid'st each nerve its strength maintain^ 

And -giv'st the tongue its flow. 
And when some witless rhymster tries 
His Lesbia's lips, or Chloe's eyes, 

In maudlin Terse to praise. 
Thy hand still mends each limping line ? 
Attests the work correct, divine, 

And wreathes his brow with bays! 



Oft when neglected genius drooped, 

Crushed by Misfortune's shower, 
At thy persuasion Rank hath stooped^ 

And raised the fading flower. 
Oft too, the hand which clenched remained. 
While suppliant worth of want complained 

In accents sad and sweet, 
Soon as thy voice was heard to plead, 
Its captive thousands straight hath freed,, 

And poured them at thy feet. 



POEMS. 



Oh! Fair Enchantress, now display 

On me thy magic art ; 
Spread round my couch thy visions gay 5 

And calm my swelling heart ! 
Myself no longer let me see. 
So far from all I fain would be; 

Paint me from faults exempt : 
Bid cruel sense obey thy rule. 
And make me. . . .like yon happy Foo! r 

My envy and contempt. 



Pleased with himself, no busy thought 

Suggests, he can displease ; 
In all he does or says, he nought 

But sterling merit sees. 
To him his voice, though cracked and sharp. 
More tuneful sounds than golden harp 

By hands of seraphs strung ; 
And while his prate each hearer tires. 
He thinks Apollo's self inspires 

The nothings of his tongue. 



10 POEMS. 



He ne'er perceives from every eye 

Contemptuous glances sent ; 
He ne'er suspects that keen reply 

To mock his folly meant : 
Half-stifled laugh, retort severe, 
Bombastic praise, and open sneer. 

In him no anguish cause ; 
To modest fear his soul is dead, 
And if in scorn you wave your head, 

He thinks you nod applause. 



Vain happy Thing ! for one like thine 

My soul to change I sue, 
At errors past who still repine, 

Though still committing new ! 
Where folly leads, I darkling stray, 
With thorns while Reason strews my way ; 

And paints in colours strong 
Each fault to shock my conscious sight j 
But never warns me what is right, 

'Till certain that I'm wrong. 



POEMS. II 



Quite fool enough the world to show 

Unvarnished each defect ; 
Just wise enough my faults to know, 

But not those faults correct ; 
With keen regret on follies past 
I dwell, and when my heart at last 

With bitter grief flows o'er. 
To mark each weakness still awake. 
What sense is mine, but serves to make 

Me feel I should have more. 



What though my soul, warm, grateful, kind ? 

Still sighs for social jovs; 
Truth with suspicion taints my mind, 

And all my bliss destroys. 
In vain may Love and Friendship tell, 
Spite of his whims and faults, how well 

They prize the wayward elf : 
Nor Love nor Friendship seem sincere ^ 
For can I be to others dear, 

Thus hateful to myself? 



12 POEMS* 



But Truth shall mar my peace no more ! 

Her empire I abjure, 
Who still delights to show the sore, 

But never shows the cure. 
No more her gall shall drug my bowl ; 
No more beneath her harsh controul 

My swelling heart shall pine : 
Her burning chains I burst, and now 
To bind my willing senses vow, 

Blest Vanity, in thine ! 



Hear, loved Deluder ! hear my prayer ! 

Restore my bosom's rest ; 
Borne on yon rainbow cleave the air, 

And lull me on thy breast ! 
Thy glittering fillet o'er my view 
Bind with benignant hand ; renew 

The flattering dreams of youth; 
For sure, 'tis better far to cheat 
The mind to bliss with kind deceit, 

Than wound with painful truth ! 



POEMS. IS 



PLEASURE AND DESIRE. 



In yonder bower lies Pleasure sleeping. 

And near him mourns a blooming maid ! 
He will not wake, and She sits weeping, 

When lo ! a stranger proffers aid : 
His hurried step, his glance of fire 

The God of wishes wild declare ! 
— lc Fond Pleasure wake !" exclaims Desire, 

And Pleasure wakes to bless the fair. 

But soon the nymph in evil hour, 

Desire asleep is doomed to view ; 
— u Try, Pleasure, try," she cries, cc your 
power, 

" And wake Desire, as He woke you."— • 
Fond girl, thy prayer exceeds all measure. 

Distinct must each his province keep : 
Desire must still awaken Pleasure, 

And Pleasure lull Desire to sleep *. 



* Since writing the above lines I met with some French 
stanzas on the same idea, but in what book I cannot re- 



14 TOEMS. 



collect : I believed them to be the production of Segur, 
but have sought them in his works without success. I re- 
member of them only that the first line was " Plaisir sur 
un monceau de roses;" that the Torch of Desire played a prin- 
cipal part ; and that the Poem consisted of seven or eight 
stanzas of eight lines each. I am firmly persuaded, that 
I never saw the French verses previous to my writing 
the above trifle ; and the leading idea is one so obvious, 
that its having occurred to two persons appears to me 
by no means improbable. However, if any Reader pre- 
fers the belief, that I am indebted to the French Poem 
for the idea of my own, I have no sort of objection : nor 
should I have thought it worth the expense of my ink 
to disclaim a plagiary of so little consequence, if an ho- 
nour, which has been conferred on my verses, had not 
stamped them with a value, to which they could never 
have been entitled by their individual merits. At a par- 
ticular period when the late Mr. Fox was in the habit of 
amusing his leisure by composing in various languages, 
my little Poem was shewn to him by a common friend, 
the Hon. William Lamb. It happened to strike his fan- 
cy, and soon after he wrote to me as follows. 

" 1 take the liberty of sending you an attempt of mine 
at an imitation of your * Pleasure and Desire.' I have, 
like other bungling translators, been obliged to double 
the number of lines in the original, which alone wouid 
be fault enough, if there were not plenty of others ; but. 



POEMS. 15 



at any rate, my having turned it into my favorite lan- 
guage, will serve as a proof, how much I am delighted 
with the thing." 

It must be superfluous to mention, that Mr. Fox's 
translation was merely performed as a sort of exercise, 
and never intended to meet the public eye : but as an 
Italian Poem by this great Statesman will probably be 
esteemed a literary curiosity, I have obtained the per- 
mission of Lord Holland and Mrs. Fox to lay it before 
my Readers. 



IL PIACERE E IL DESIRE. 

BY THE RIGHT HON C. J. FOX. 

Stavasi un di a lagnarsi 
Nice con duolo e pianto, 
Mentre il Piacere accanto 

Vedeasi, ohime! dormir. 
Egli non vuol svegliarsi, 
Ond' Ella vive in pene; 
Ma ecco un Garzon viene 

Aita ad offerir. 



16 POEMS. 



Al passo frettoloso, 

Al guardo ardente e fiero, 

Chi sia quel bel Straniero, 

Si pud ben devinar. 
— " Svegh'ati !" al sonnacchioso 

Grido il Desir ; " Son Io ! 

— Quei desto, e pien di brio 

Va Nice a consolar. 

Tosto la Poverella, 
Che cosl vuole il Fato, 
Desire addormentato 

Pur esso ritrovo. 
— — " Orsii, Piacer," die' Ella, 
<l Deh ! sana il mio martire, 
E sveglia Tu il Desire, 

Com' Egli ti sveglio." ■ 

Ah ! questo a lui non lice ! 
Troppo contrarj effetti 
Quei vaghi Giovanetti 

Sogliono ognora oprar. 
Del Desio proprio e, Nice, 
Svegliar Piacere in noi, 
E del Desire poi 

Piacere addormentar. 



POEMS, 17 



On another occasion Mr. Fox was obliging enough to 
send me an Italian Poem of his original composition, 
which appeared to me extremely pretty ; and I doubt 
not, my Readers will be much gratified by my enabling 
them to participate in the pleasure, which I received 
from the perusal. 



CANZONETTO, 
BY THE RIGHT HOX. C. J. VOX. 

Come, o Dei ! il dolce Amore 
Giubilare TUom faria, 
Se importuna Gelosia 

Non mischiasse assenzio al meL 
E' d'Amore, dicon, figlia, 
Ma piu all' Odio assai somiglia; 
Beh ! Ben mio, da quella peste 

Sempremai ci guardi il ciel. 

Tosto entrata ch' e nel petto, 
Fuor ne caccia ogni diletto : 
Chi disteso e sulla ruota, 

Non ha simile martir. 
Morta pare, e poi rinasce; 
D' ogni cibo ella si pasce; 
Se '1 veleno alimenta 

Come mai potra morir? 
C 



18 POEMS. 



Cedera pur questa volta 
La malvagia, cieca, e stolta ; 
Spegneralla quell' istesso, 

Che pur or vita le die. 
Amor fido, pura Fede 
Nobil guerra a lei faranno; . 
Non temer, che vinceranno, 

Vinceranno Amor e Fe. 



POEMS. 19 



ON EXCESS. 



■<— " Les Hommes le plupart sont etrangement faits; 
Dans la juste nature on ne les voit jamais : 
La Raison a pour eux des bornes trop petites ; 
En chaque caracetre ils passent ses limites ; 
Et la plus noble chose, ils la gatent souvcnt 
Pour la vouloir outrer et pousser trop avant." — 

Molierc. 



While so various our faculties, passions, and views. 
How comes it, so few can true happiness find ? 
"Tis because Man, what-e'er be the course he 
pursues, 
Still aims to be more, than what Nature de- 
signed. 
Tis because with contempt Moderation we see; 
To be wise, happy, great, or good none ever 
tries ; 
But with ceaseless exertion each labours to be 
Too great, or too happy, too good, or too 

wise. 

c 2 



20 POEMS. 



To be Man and no more Man should limit his 
care, 

And hold the mid station 'twixt Angel and 
Brute, 
Active Virtue composing his every-day's wear, 

And harmless Enjoyment his holiday's suit. 
But while Moderation despising, we strive 

In pleasure or virtue perfection to gain, 
From excess to excess on life's ocean we drive, 

And the harbour of happiness seldom attain. 



Some, holding that Man but exists to enjoy, 
Bid their days winged with rapture voluptu- 
ously fly; 
Others, finding that libertine pleasures soon cloy, 
Reject the delights, which their senses supply. 
Like Maniacs the First wildly riot along, 

Forlorn to the Last seems their earthly abode : 
Both fly to extremes, find too late they were 
wrong, 
And have mist the true blessings^ which che- 
quer life's road. 



POEMS. 21 



The Hermit, with Man and with Nature at strife. 
Shunning pleasure, and careless who sink or 
who swim, 
Leads alone and inactive a dull selfish life, 

Neither useful to others, nor pleasing to him : 

Nor e'er by such cold flinty hearts can be proved 

That sunshine, which chears his benevolent 

breast, 

Who by loving his neighbours has made himself 

loved, 
And by blessing another, can make himself blest. 



The Rake, from all conscience and prejudice 
freed, 
God and Man in pursuit of enjoyment defies : 
Though Prudence may warn him, though Virtue 
may plead, 
Invited by Pleasure, still onward he flies. 
But ne'er tastes the Libertine's lip that sweet 
stream, 
Unsullied which flows in life's chrystalline bowl, 
When Love joins with Nature, with Passion 
Esteem, 
And the senses in ecstasy yield to the soul. 



22 POEMS* 



Despised be the Hermit, detested the Rake ; 

The Last is a Villain, the First is a Fool : 
Not theirs be the lives which for models I take, 

Not theirs be the maxims my conduct to rule. 
I'll aim not at virtues for Man too sublime, 

I'll pervert not my pleasures by vicious excess ; 
But while Bacchus and Love aid the progress of 
Time, 

May Honour and Sense their encroachments 
repress. 



When Remorse with my kisses her poison would 
blend, 
May Beauty's soft bosom ne'er throb against 
mine ; 
When the grape proves my Tyrant, no longer 
my Friend, 
Oh Lips ! may I ne'er again bathe you in wine ! 
But when at the tears of a stranger I melt, 

Or my spirits ar^unk by the pressure of care, 
May Love give me thanks, that for others I felt, 
And Wine give me strength my own burthen 
to bear. 



POEMS. £3 



Let Honour the pleasures I covet approve, 

Or never by me let those pleasures be tried ; 
Let the kiss I solicit be granted by Lave, 

Or still to my lip may that kiss be denied: 
And when for my sorrows a solace to find, 

I bid in my goblet champagne bubble high, 
May each globe on its surface recall to my mind 

A tear drawn by Kindness from Gratitude's 
eyef 



24 POEMS. 



CRAZY JANE. 



Stay, fair Maid ! — On every feature 

Why are marks of dread imprest? 
Can a wretched helpless creature 

Raise such terrors in your breast ? 
Do my frantic looks alarm you ? 

Trust me, Sweet, your fears are vain : 
Not for kingdoms would I harm you ; 

Shun not then poor Crazy Jane ! 

Dost thou weep to see my anguish ? 

Mark me, and escape my woe ! 
When Men flatter, sigh, and languish, 

Think them false ; — 1 found them so ! 
For I loved Oh ! so sincerely 

None will ever love again ! 
Yet the Man I prized most dearly. 

Broke the heart of Crazy Jane. 



POEMS. 25 



Gladly that young heart received him, 

Which has never loved but one! 
He seemed true, and I believed him ; 

He was false, and I undone* 
Since that hour, has reason never 

Held her empire in my brain: 
Henry fled : with him for ever 

Fled the wits of Crazy Jane ! 

Now forlorn, and broken-hearted, 

Still with frenzied thoughts beset, 
Near that spot where last we parted^ 

Near that spot where first we met, 
Thus I chaunt my love-lorn ditty, 

While I sadly pace the plain ; 
And each passer-by in pity 

Sighs — " God help thee, Crazy Jane!"- 



26 POEMS. 



LINES 

Written on returning from the Funeral of the 

RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX, 

Friday, October 10, 1806. 

ADDRESSED TO LORD HOLLAND. 



■ " Pianger ben merti ognor, s'ora non piangi !"— 

Tasso^ 



And is this all ? — that vast and vigorous mind. 
Whose views embraced the good of all mankind 
That reasoning Eloquence, whose rapid course 
Bore down the Opposcr with resistless force ; 
That Genius, from all trick and tinsel free, 
Bright as the Sun, and boundless as the Sea; 
1 



POEMS. 27 

That heart, with friendship, love, and feeling 

fraught; 
That world of knowledge, and that depth of 

thought ; 
That Truth, Taste, Sense, Simplicity, and 

Worth....... 

Oh ! and are all these hid in that small heap of 

Earth ? 

Weep, Albion, weep! thou wilt not weep 

alone ; 
The Globe's four quarters shall repeat thy moan : 
For where's the clime, which hath not felt the 

care 
Of Him, whose liberal love all Nature seemed 

to share ? 
India *, whose cause He laboured to uphold, 
Whose rights he pleaded, and whose wrongs He 

told, 
Shall feel her breast with fond remembrance swell, 
And mourn his loss, who mourned her woes so 

well. 

* Hastings' Trial. 



2S POEMS, 



America * shall grateful weep the Sage, 
Who stemmed the torrent of Oppression's rage, 
Cherished her generous zeal, and joyed to see 
Her injured Offspring's efforts to be free. 
On Afric's + burning plains her sable Sons, 
While down their cheeks the stream of sorrow 

runs, 
Shall bless the Man, who bade them dread no 

more 
The servile chain, and scourge which streams 

with gore. 
And (nearer home) embattled Powers, who sigh 
To sheath the sword, and hoped, that rest was 

nigh, 
Shall feel with Fox's death those hopes decrease, 
And bleeding Europe mourn the Friend of Peace. 

In forms of fire stamped on my heart and brain, 
This day's funereal pomp shall still remain : 

* The American War. 

f His efforts to abolish the Slave-Trade ; in which He 
had succeeded so far as to prevent more vessels from 
being employed in this traffic. 



POEMS. 29 



Still I'll repeat, — a Fate gave me once to see 

Malice herself to Virtue bend the knee : 

Yes ! Fox was mourned, as Fox deserved to j 

be !"— 

The Sovereign's power enjoined no public show ; 
The pomp was public, for the grief was so ! 
No Courtier here displayed his gilded wand, 
And mourned obsequious at his King's command: 
No pensioned Hireling showed his careless face 
To please his Patron, ^ and preserve his place : 
Here thronged with swelling hearts and stream- 
ing eyes 
The Good, the Great, the Learned, and the Wise. 
Here met to grieve firm Faith and Love sincere, 
And patriot Worth sustained the kindred bier. 
Here Britain sighed o'er many a ruined plan, 
Friends o'er the Friend, and Nature o'er the Man! 

Nor did the Nobler ranks atl tears engross ; 
A general anguish spoke a general loss. 
As moved with measured pace the pomp along ? 
How reverent grief to statues turned the throng! 
No smile of vacant pleasure shocked the eye ; 
No sound the ear 3 unless a stifled sigh. 



30 POEMS, 



The Mourners past, alone marked out to view 
By weeds of black ; the Crowd were Mourners 

too : 
And though nor flowing scarves nor sable dress 
Declared by outward signs the mind's distress. 
They wore [what grief of heart more surely 

speaks] 
SwolTn eyes, dejected looks, and bloodless 

cheeks. 
It seemed, as slowly swung the passing bell, 
On each full heart the solemn chimings fell : 
Mcthought, on every lip a blessing hung, 
But pious awe restrained the obedient tongue. 
Each limb shook agueish ; scarce a cheek was 

dry; 
And blinded by the gush of tears, each eye 
Spoke in the native tongue of genuine woe, 
. — " We come to weep the friend ; not to admire 

the show." 

Hail, hallowed Towers * !— Oh ! spread your 

portals wide; 
Guest more illustrious never swelled your pride ! 



Westminster Abbey. 



POEMS. 31 



To meet his corse, ye Kindred Shades, arise. 
Shades of the Good, the Glorious, and the Wise, 
For He was glorious, wise, and good, like You ! 
Give place, ye Kings,and pay him reverence duet 
Nor plead superior power, nor loftier birth ; 
His deeds are greatness, and He ranks from worth. 

Oh ! sad strange moment ! when that awful word 
Soul-felt, soul-rending " Dust to Dust!" was 

heard, 
How stood the blood congealed in every vein! 
How Memory wrung the heart, and fired the 

brain ! 
Oft as these walls have heard the solemn sound, 
And oft as tears have dewed that hallowed ground. 
From nobler eyes a tribute more sincere 
JVe'er flowed, Oh ! Fox, than flowed to bathe 

thy bier! 
There princely Devon laboured to restrain 
His bursting grief, but laboured still in vain. 
In sorrow dignified there Moira stood, 
Moira, the brave, the generous, and the good. 
There Howick's heart was torn by many a sigh, 
And soft affection dimmed his burning eye, 



S2 POEMS. 



When in the grave He saw for aye descend 
His mind's best model, and his soul's best Friend. 
He too, the just, the true, the pure, the kind, 
The mild in manners, and the firm in mind, 
[Whose heart might bleed, but not whose virtue 

bend; 
Who left the Statesman, yet still kept the Friend, 
And counting Fox's love his proudest boast. 
Who, e'en when most they differed, prized him 

most*] 
Fitzwilliam there, as swelled the requiem 

strain, 
Wept o'er his earliest friendship's broken chain. 
And there too Thou, Heir to the Patriot's flame, 
Heir to his worth, his talents, and his name, 
Allied by virtue as allied by blood, 
Like Fox sincere, warm, candid, kind, and good, 
Thou, Holland. ...No ! let others fill the line ; 
'Twould pain my heart too much to speak the 

pains of thine ! 

* Alluding to the difference of opinion between Lord 
Fitzwilliam and Mr. Fox respecting the French Revolu- 
tion. 



POEMS. 33 



Nor Those alone, whom earthly grief excites, 
Here hang the head. — To grace the funeral rites, 
Lo ! where a band of bright ethereal Powers 
Sigh o'er his corse, and deck his grave with 

flowers. 
There stand the Patriot-Virtues, loath to part 
For ever from their favourite home, his heart. 
There History droops absorbed in speechless 

grief, 
Blotting with idle tears the unfinished leaf, 
And trampling in the dust those useless boughs 
Of Bays, she gathered to adorn his brows*. 
Mourning her Sons disfranchised, while her eyes 
Pursue the Patriot's shade to opening skies, 
Religion there in sable garments stands, 
And clasps in meek despair her shackled hands t. 
And there too Peace her olive loves to wave, 
And strows its withered leaves on Fox's grave ; 
For well she knows, e'en at that last sad hour 
When Nature yielded to Disease's power, 

v His unfinished History of James the Second. 

-f His efforts to procure the repeal of the Test Act. 



34? POEMS. 



Compelled from Fame, from Life, from Love to 

part, 
Her absence still weighed heaviest on his heart*. 
And Freedom there, distracted and forlorn, 
With heart all bleeding, and with locks all torn, 
Weeps for his loss, nor weeps his loss alone; 
She feels, that Fox's fate involves her own. 
E'en now She hears from Afric's shores again 
The moan of sorrow and the shriek of pain. 
And sees, round sable limbs that chains are 

wound. 
Limbs, had He lived, which never had been 

bound +. 

Oh ! Thou, my Friend ! [a name I give to few ; 
A name, which forms my pride, when given to 

you!] 
I will not tell thee, Holland, — a seek relief 
From sport or study, and forget thy grief!" — 

* On his death-bed Mr. Fox frequently expressed his 
anxiety for the restoration of Peace. 

f Great fears were entertained, that Mr. Fox's death 
would occasion the continuance of the Slave-Trade ; but 
xbese apprehensions fortunately proved unfounded. 



POEMS. 35 



No \- — still preserve it ! still before thy view 
Keep Thou that great good Man; His plans 

pursue ; 
Recall his thoughts, words, looks, and what I 

He was, Be you ! 
Though great by talents, virtue, birth, and fame, 
— u The People's Friend" — was sure his proudest 

name : 
Still in his race that gracious name should run 
From patriot Sire to still more patriot Son, 
Still should his Line its public virtue prove ; 
Till Britain's Gratitude and Britain's Love 
The Epithet and Name so well shall blend, 
That who says— " Fox" — has said — " the 

People's Friend." — 

So burned in Vesta's shrine the sacred Fire: 
Oft though it saw the Guardian-Maid expire, 
From age to age still blazed the immortal Flame, 
The Priestess altered, but the Fire the same. 



D 



36 POEMS. 



THE LOVER'S ASTRONOMY. 



Come ! on my knee, Love, take thy seat, 
And learn, while last the moonlight hours, 

In order just and concord sweet 

What rules maintain yon starry powers. 

I'll teach thee, how Attraction's Law 
Each planet's destined movement traces ; 

How still yon Orbs each other draw, 

Though fated ne'er to change their places : 

And then I'll say [the case to prove] 
— c; Thus in harmonious concert beating 

Our hearts towards each other move. 
Attracted still; though never meeting."— 



POEMS. 87 



I'll teach thee, how yon Planet bright, 
Which from the Sun too far is lying, 

Is girdled with a ring of light 

The want of solar rays supplying : 

And then I'll say — u as draws yon star 
Light from its ring, my soul's affection. 

When from thy radiant eyes I'm far, 
Still draws support from Recollection. " — 

Oh ! see, the Moon is waning fast ! — 
Oh ! see, her transient reign expires ! — 

So, Love, ere many a year is past, 
Shall fade in death our amorous Fires ! 

Gone is the Moon : And shall not Tears, 
Mourning her loss of light, attend her ? — 

No ; for that brilliant Orb appears, 

From whence She drew her borrowed splen- 
dour : 

More pure, more bright He flames on high, 
Nor asks from foreign rays assistance— 

So when those amorous fires shall die, 
Which here received their brief existence, 



38 POEMS. 



Our souls escaped from earthly strife. 
By many a fault and folly lighter. 

Placed in another better life 

Shall love with flames far purer, brighter. 



POEMS. 39 



HOPE AND FEAR. 



Two Pilgrims, Hope and Fear, agreed, 
To Pleasure's Altar They'd proceed, 

And sacrifice together ; 
Fair Hope was young ; but Fear was old, 
And drooped with heat, and shrunk with cold, 

While Hope still praised the weather. 

Quoth Fear, — "Iguess, ere long 'twill rain !" — 
— " And then," said Hope, " 'twill clear 
again." 

— " Yon rock, so steep and frightful, 
To climb," said Fear, " 'twere Tain to try !" — 
— " Oh ! yes, we will," was Hope's reply ; 

" The view must be delightful !" — 



40 POEMS. 



— Ci I'm sure," said Fear, u we've missed the 

way, 
And ne'er shall reach the shrine to-day ; 

My strength, my spirits falter !" — 
— u On! On!" said Hope, " I know, we're 

right !"— 
And oft mistook the Northern Light 
For lamps on Pleasure's Altar I 

At length they reached the blooming Fane 
In spite of danger, toil, and pain, 

Rough ways, and stormy weather : 
When lo ! From Pleasure's torch there came 
A flash of roseate fire, whose flame 

Killed Hope and Fear together. 

Hope, while she lived, was well beloved ; 
Yet when she died, no soul was moved 

To feel one hour's depression, 
All thought her place so well supplied 
By mild Content's ccelestial Bride, 

Whom Mortals call — u Possession!" — 



POEMS. 41 



LINES WRITTEN ON A JOURNEY, 



I hasten once more to the place, 

Which saw the first dawn of my woes ! 
Once more I shall gaze on the face. 

Which banished my bosom's repose. 
Ah ! Madman, be wise, and retire, 

The danger while still you may shun; 
You will gaze, and again will admire, 

Will again be despised and undone ! 

Oh ! well 1 remember the morn, 

Which first showed me Amoret's eyes ! 
She repaid my affection with scorn, 

I only reproached her with sighs ! 
She laughed at a passion so wild, 

She called it presumptuous and vain ; 
And the Madman rejoiced tbat she smiled, 

Though he knew, she but smiled in disdain. 



4-2 POEMS. 



How oft in the dream of the night 

Have I doated on Amoret's charms ! 
How oft at return of the light 

Have I wished she were clasped in my arms I 
How I grieved that it was but a dream, 

And vainly looked round for relief! 
The grief which I felt was extreme, 

And my folly was great as my grief: 

For though I could never persuade 

My heart, that She e'er would be mine, 
Though I knew to be loved by a Maid 

In mind and in form thus divine, 
Was bliss so peculiar, so high, 

That it never could fall to my lot, 
Yet I loved her, and never thought why, 

And hoped, though I dared not say what I 

I sighed for that bliss night and day, 

Which I feared I should never obtain; 
I mourned that the Maid was away, 

Though I thought we should ne'er meet again. 
My folly in vain I discerned, 

In vain to forget her I strove, 
For Nature, where-ever I turned, 

Still bade me remember my love ! 



POEMS. 45 



The trees as they streamed in the air. 

The Rose where the Bee loved to sip^ 
Showed the waving of Araoret's hair, 

Showed the coral of Amoret'^Lip: 
And when the bright Sky or blue Sea 

Others viewed with delight and surprize. 
No thought was suggested to me 

But the colour of Amoret's eyes ! 

Ah ! me ! with what tender delight 

Did my doating eyes dwell on each face* 
In whose features my love-quickened sight 

Could find of her beauties a trace ! 
To all, whom I saw her prefer, 

Good- will did my bosom extend ; 
And they, who spoke kindly of her. 

In me were secure of a Friend, 

At the moment She first met my view, 

I felt 'twas my fate to adore ; 
With each moment that over me flew, 

I felt that I loved her the more : 
And when I was forced to depart, 

My feelings no language can tell : 
I bade her adieu in my heart, 

But my lips could not murmur— u Farewell !"- 



44? POEMS. 



Yet absence has proved to me kind, 

And my bosom once more is at rest ; 
Healed up is the wound of my mind. 

And cold is the flame in my breast : 
But again when her beauties I view, 

I feel I again shall adore ; 
My wound will burst open anew, 

And my flame burn as fierce as before* 

Yet my danger in vain I perceive ; 

Though I know to my ruin I run, 
I will not my reason believe, 

Which bids me the precipice shun : 
For if Amoret fastens my chains, 

I never shall wish to be free ; 
And if she is pleased with my pains, 

Those pains shall be cherished by me t 



POEMS. 45 



TO THE HON. CHARLES W. S- 



While Youth's gay visions charm your view ; 

While Health and Strength and Peace are 
yours ; 
While Fortune's smile for all you do, 

The venal World's applause secures; 

While Honour guides your steps to Fame, 
And Pleasure strows your couch with flowers, 

friendship withdraws her humbler claim, 
And yields to Love and War your hours. 

But should the world applaud no more, 
Or fleeting Health elude your arms ; 

Should Slander make your feelings sore, 
Or withering Glory lose her charms ; 



•J 



46 >OEMS. 



Or should some Syren drop her mask, 

Whose arts had made your soul her slave. 

Oh ! then, my Charles, be mine the task 
To ease the pain, which others gave. 

As o'er the sky does Solar Light 
At morn diffuse a brilliant blaze, 

So Love and Fame with splendour bright 
Gild Man-the-Pilgrim's youthful days: 

But when those splendours disappear, 
And night and grief their place assume, 

JVIild rises Friendship's Moon, to chear 

And guide the Wanderer through the gloom. 



POEMS. 47 



DELIA TO EDMUND. 

WRITTEN AT A LADY'S DESIRE, IN ANWSER TO 
THE FOLLOWING STANZAS BY P. PINDAR. 



£ Ah ! why to others art thou fair ? 

Why from thy bosotn's snowy white, 
Thy smiles j thy cheeks, thy glossy hair, 

Must other Shepherds steal delight? 

From morn to eve let me admire, 
Untired thy converse szceet approve ; 

TJiy charms which other 'Shepherds fire, 
Oh ! Delia, wrong my constant love* 

I feel the beauties that are thine, 

Yet let my heart alone adore : 
An avarice of love is mine, 

That doats, tike Misers^ on their Store. 



48 POEMS. 



Then^ Delia, view my secret vale, 

And with thy smiles indulge the Swain ; 

How blest to tell the love-sick tale. 

To Her, whom thousands seek in vain! ] 



ANSWER. 



Ye powers, who oft have heard my prayer, 
To make him your peculiar care. 

Witness with how much rapture I could fly 
With Edmund to the lowliest cell, 
-And there unknown, unknowing dwell, 

JNTor give to aught 1 left one tear or sigh ! 



POEMS. 49 



But did not Pride inspire the lay, 
Which courts me to that ceil away ? 

Lurks in his lines no selfish envious thought? 
And would his faith unchanged remain, 
" To her zchom thousands seek in vain J' 

if she by thousands should no more be sought ? 



Does not his conscious heart feel proud, 
When turning from the adoring croud, 

My eyes are only anxious his to meet ? 
Joys He not, when by every tongue 
He hears his Delia's praises rung, 

And finds that praise from his alone is sweet ; 



He does ! And now hi« power to try, 
From all but him he bids me fly, 

And shew the world, how wildly 1 adore ! 
Dear Youth, the ungenerous wish repress : 
It has not made me love thee less 

But has not, Edmund, made me love thee more. 



50 POEMS. 



Yet if I wrong thee, if indeed 

'Tis fear that makes thy poor heart bleed, 

Lest She thou lov'st, some other should prefer, 
Let me thy jealous doubts efface, 
Wrong me not with a thought so base. 

For Delia trusts in thee ! — Oh ! trust in Her ! 



Believe, that in my own sincere 
All vows but thine offend my ear; 

Then hush thy anxious bosom's care to rest : 
And when thou hear'st a Rival's name, 
Think that his sighs but fan the flame, 

Which thou alone hast kindled in my breast. 



That wealth and title sue to me, 
Glads me, I own, since 'tis for thee 

Such glorious glittering baubles I resign ; 
Or should a smile my cheek adorn, 
Oh ! trust me, I but smile in scorn, 

To think their merits should contend with thine. 



POEMS. 51 



Then conscious that my heart is true, 
Unmoved for that see others sue. 

Which to thy care long since I gladly gave ; 
With me the palm of Conquest share, 
My chains when Captive Thousands wear. 

And triumph in the thought, — " their 
Sovereign is my Slave." — 



E 2 



52 POEMS. 



THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER. 



The frozen streets in moonshine glitter, 

The midnight hour has long been past ! 
Oh ! God ! the wind blows keen and bitter, 

I sink beneath the piercing blast. 
In every vein life seems to languish, 

Their weight my limbs no more can bear : 
But no one soothes the Orphan's anguish, 

And no one heeds the Orphan's prayer* 



POEMS. 53 



Hark ! Hark ! for surely footsteps near me 

Advancing press the drifted snow. 
I die for food ! — Oh ! Stranger 5 hear rae 5 

I die for food ! — Some alms bestow ! 
You see no guilty wretch implore you, 

No Wanton pleads m feigned despair ; 
A famished Orphan kneels before you, 

Oh ! grant the famished Orphan's prayer ! 

Perhaps you think, my lips dissembling 

Of virtuous sorrows feign a tale ? 
Mark then my frame with anguish trembling, 

My hollow eyes, and features pale* 
E'en should my story not be real. 

Too well these wasted limbs declare. 
My wants at least are not ideal ; 

Then, Stranger, grant the Orphan's prayer. 

He's gone ! — No mercy Man will show me ; 

In prayers no more I'll waste my breath : 
Here on the frozen earth I'll throw me, 

And wait in mute despair for death. 
Farewell, thou cruel world ! — To-morrow 

No more thy scorn my heart shall tear ; 
The grave will shield the child of sorrow, 

And Heaven will hear the Orphan's prayer 



' 



54? POEMS, 



But Thou, proud Man, the Beggar scorning, 

Unmoved who saw'st me kneel for bread. 
Thy heart shall ache to hear at morning, 

That morning found the Beggar dead : 
And when the room, resounds with laughter^ 

My famished cry thy mirth shall scare. 
And often shalt Thou wish hereafter, 

Thou hadst not scorned the Orphan's prayer, 



POEMS. 55 



LAURA VINDICATED. 



TO A FRIEND. 



No, 'twas not love, in Laura's bower 

Which made me oft consume the day ; 
She knew my heart owned Julia's power, 

She knew my heart was far away. 
Each soul but joyed a soul to meet. 

With which itself could well agree ; 
Grief made to me her soothing sweet, 

And Pity made her cherish me. 



i>6 POEMS. 



>Twas not because its purer white 

From Scythian snow would gain the prize, 
Which made me for whole hours delight 

To watch her bosom's fall and rise : 
But 'twas because that bosom swelled 

With passions free from vice and art ; 
And 'twas because that bosom held 

A generous, fond, and feeling heart. 

'Twas not because her eyes were bright, 

Which made me still with rapture view 
Their orbs illume with azure light 

Encircling seas of diamond-dew* 
But 'twas [when first She heard, I pined 

With love, which Honour's laws forbid j 
Because a tear-drop soft and kind 

Escaped from either lovely lid. 

Oh! I've with her past days alone, 

Nor bade her lips one kiss confer : 
And oft we've talked in tenderest tone 

Of love, yet ne'er of love for her : 
But sometimes [when her gentle art 

To lull my care some means has found] 
So much her Friendship eased its smart, 

I've thought, her Love might cure my wound. 



POEMS. 57 



But scarce the wish ray mind could frame. 

Before I scorned the selfish thought 
Which aimed to load her soul with shame, 

Who balm to mine had often brought, 

Friend, let these lines thy doubts remove. 

For Laura's breast is Virtue's shrine : 
It felt for me a Sister's love, 

And found a Brother's heart in mine. 



58 * POEMS. 



THE CONSOLER. 



It seemed, as Nature's flame were dead! — No 

beam 
From Sun or Moon diffused its chearing gleam 
O'er that dark sky, at morn which seemed so 

fair, 
It thence seemed darker now. The mirky air 
Close, thick, and lowering, with its burthen 

prest 
The spirits down, and clogged the labouring 

breast. 
The birds were silent on the leafless spray ; 
And wild and waste the soul's Elysium lay, 
Spoiled of its floral treasure. Cankerous Want 
And Sorrow's worm had killed Health's bloom- 

ing plant : 



POEMS. 59 



Hope, the fond sun-fl ower, turned no more its eye, 
Where orient lustre fired the eastern sky : 
The Primrose, Youth, was dead, unlimely dead ; 
The Lily, Virtue, lived, but drooped its head : 
And Bliss [that Empress-Rose, whose odorous 

power 
And biushing cups at Morn's delicious hour 
Poured on my senses from its emerald seats 
A blaze of beauties and a cloud of sweets]. 
Now, lost its glowing gems and green attire, 
Met my sad eyes a rude unsightly briar. 
Menaced my hand with thorns, as near I drew, 
And wept its ravished flowers in tears of dew. 

Oh ! I was sad at soul ! — No aid was nigh. 
No present joy, no future hope! — Mine eye 
Where-e'er in suppliant anxious search I turned,. 
*T was anguish, 'twas despair!— My bosom burned, 
My heart was broken ! Now in sullen mood 
And dull dark apathy I silent stood, 
Like one to marble changed : and now again 
Wild Memory flashed her torch athwart my brain, 
And fired it into madness. Then the ground 
I struck with throbbing front, and scattered round 



60 POEMS, 



Locks of torn hair ; and still in frantic tone 
Of mingled rage and pain, half shriek, half groan, 
I raved of honest hearts with treachery paid. 
Of perjured love, false Friends, and trust be- 
trayed, 
And curst in bitter grief and fury vain 
Man's flinty heart, and woman's fickle brain. 

When Io ! as thus in maniac state I lay, 
A Matron tow'rds me won her easy way *, 
With solemn step She moved : Her robes of white 
Of vestal-make, though not so dazzling bright. 
Were pure as Virtue's own : and o'er her head 
A Cyprus veil in decent guise was spread, 
Fixt on her forehead by a sacred wreath, 
And past in graceful folds her chin beneath. 
Inspiring awe, but awe unmixed with fear, 
Calm was her cloudless eye: Her brow, so clear 
From wrinkles, spoke [though pale] a heart, 

which ne'er 
Had known the withering touch of guilt or care. 
A bowl, around whose brim the poppy reigned, 
In her right hand She bore : Her left sustained 

* Gray. 



POEMS. 61 



A mirror, on whose polished breast were shown 
A thousand mingling shapes of things unknown, 
Where Fancy bade the enraptured thought unite 
All that was pure and precious, fair and bright. 
Yet what those objects were, in vain mine eyes 
I strained to know ; For still would mists arise, 
Which, o'er the crystal surface as they played, 
Confounded light with light, and shade with shade. 
Yet Oh! so beauteous showed those clouded 

views, 
So bright those doubtful forms and blended hues, 
I thought, while gazing on their lines obscure, 
All witnessed pomp seemed mean, all dreamt-of 

wealth seemed poor ! 

She waved her hand; the clouds disperst ! — 'tis 

true, 
The gaudy Sun no dazzling lustre threw 
Athwart Heaven's vault ; but that clear tranquil 

Grey, 
Whose sober hue attends on closing day, 
Stole o'er the skies, eye-soothing ! — On, the 

Dame 
"With lofty head and port majestic came 3 



62 POEMS. 



And as She past, oft crept some drooping flower. 
Whose beauties bloomed unmarked in sunless 

bower, 
Till plucked by Her, then first perceived the eye, 
Its form how graceful, and how rich its dye. 
As on She moved, Want, Sorrow, Pain, and 

Care 
Fled from her glance, and sought less sacred air. 
Soothed by her voice, inveterate Malice poured 
His arrows at her feet, and broke his sword. 
Deep Slumber bound the Passions' stormy train; 
ISo more did Slander hiss, or hissed in vain : 
And where that Matron's hallowed step once 

trod, 
Envy herself with flowers oft drest the sod. 

With awful hope I gazed, while near She drew, 
And from her bowl on my parched forehead 

threw 
Some opiate drops. — Oh! then how swift my soul 
Cast off her burthen ! Grateful languor stole 
O'er all my frame, and soon my temples round 
Sleep with soft hand her wreath of poppies 
bound. 



POEMS. 63 



Yet ere I sank to rest — " Oh ! Thou/' I said, 
€C Pain's readiest balm, and Sorrow's surest aid, 
Whose power can every pang and care repell. 
Oh! Friend of Misery, deign thy name to 
tell !"— 

I paused. — Her gracious smile consent revealed ; 
With holiest kiss my weary eyes She sealed. 
And while her lips inhaled my sighing breath. 
Softly She whispered — Ci Friend^ my name is 
Death."— 



64 POEMS. 



THE BLIND LOVER. 



it's true, my Lotc, of precious light 

These sightless orbs admit no ray ; 
Dark are to me the Stars of Night, 

And blush of mom, and blaze of day. 
Yet think not, Sweet, the want of eyes 

Can e'er thine Arthur's mind annoy, 
While Mary's hand that want supplies, 

And kindly guides her poor blind Boy. 
1 



POEMS. 65 



I boast no teasure but a heart, 

'Tis thine, and thine shall still remain ; 
I boast no science, but the art 

To .wake sweet Music's plaintive strain : 
Yet if it yields one pleasing thought. 

When thus my hands the lyre employ. 
Oh ! 'tis because 'twas Mary taught 

That science to her poor Blind Boy. 

Though knowledge hides her stores from me. 

And Glory's Clarions vainly call, 
In lieu of these Heaven gave me Thee, 

And giving Thee, it gave me all ! 
And while of love I hear thee tell, 

And cherish hope, and promise joy, 
Oh ! Kings and Sages sure might well 

With envy view the poor Blind Eoy ! 

Oft, when of loss of sight I speak, 

I hear thee breathe a tender sigh ; 
And oft I feel on Arthur's cheek 

A tear, which fell from Mary's eye : 
Which when I feel, which when I hear, 

Not Thrones could yield me half such joy 
As that one sigh, as that one tear, 

Which Pity gives the poor Blind Boy. 
F 



66 POEMS. 

Let others Independence prize, 

And proudly boast their actions free ; 
Unenvying, I their power despise, 

And boast, that J depend on Thee ! 
Depend for guidance, food, and aid, 

For every comfort, every joy 
Of Him who but for Thee, dear Maid, 

Would be a friendless poor Blind Boy ! 

Then love me still, nor e'er forsake 

A Being so forlorn as I ! 
Oh ! love me still, nor bid to break 

His heart, who robbed of Thee must die! 
That hour, which hears thee say '' Adieu t" 

Will love and life at once destroy : 
But love me, love me still, and who 

Is blest like Thee, thou poor Blind Boy ! 



POEMS* 67 



TO GEORGINA, 



ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 



Nor Love's complaint, nor Passion's prayer, 
Nor Harp that's strung with Cupid's hair 
Salutes thine ear, and bids the air 

Spread round thy charms and worth : 
'Tis Friendship, pure, serene, and mild, 
Esteem's and Admiration's child, 
Whose voice now hails the morn, which smiled 

On fair Georgina's birth. 
F 2 



68 POEMS. 



But gentle Sylphids, to her ear 

More tender should my strains appear, 

Than Friend should use, or Friend should hear. 

While thus my lyre I strike, 
Tell her, when poured in Beauty's praise 
Nature so soft makes Friendship's lays, 
Though 'tis not Love each line pourtrays, 

'Tis something very like. 

When manly worth claims Friendship's song, 
His brazen Harp, firm, clear, and strong, 
He strikes, and roves those chords among 

Which sense and honour suit : 
But when he sings for woman's sake, 
More melting tones He joys to make, 
And strives with gentlest touch to wake 

Affection's silver Lute. 

Georgina, I'll not call thee fair, 

Nor praise thy radiant eyes, nor swear, 

That Beauty's crown with splendour rare 

Shines glorious round thy brows ; 
For why should I misuse my time, 
{[On stilts poetic raised sublime] 
To tell the world in maudlin rhyme, 
What all the world allows. 



POEMS. 6!) 



I will not wish, no time nor change 
From thee thy Friends may e'er estrange ; 
For sure no heart can ever range, 

The worth of thine which knows : 
I will not wish, thy form divine 
By each fresh year improved may shine ; 
For sure to add new charms to thine 

Would be to scent a rose*. 

I'll rather wish [and could'st thou see 
My heart, thou would'st perforce agree, 
No mortal Wight, who-e'er He be, 

Could breathe a kinder vow] 
I'll wish [with all that Heaven's best will 
Can give of good two lines to fill] 
— " May Heaven, sweet Girl, preserve thee still, 

u Just what I think thee now !" — 



* ~" To add a perfume to the Violet." 

SHAK3PEARE. 



70 POEMS. 



ON SORROW. 



[written ox the death of a much-valued 
female friend.] 



Yes ! I'll away, and seek that kind relief. 
Which rural scenes and Nature's smiles impart: 

I am not of their kind, who cherish grief, 
And love to fold it to a bleeding heart. 

Deep is my wound ! No time can e'er efface 
The lines by anguish on my soul imprest ; 

But shall I strengthen still each painful trace. 
And drive the poniard further in my breast I 
2 



POEMS. 71 



Shall I reject kind Pleasure's smiles as snares, 
Prolong with cruel art the embittered pain. 

Neglect all friendly means to soothe my cares. 
And u weep the more, because I weep in 
vain * ?" — 

No ! while Disease conducts with slow sure 
pangs 

Some pale and lingering Victim to the Tomb, 
Or while some Mother o'er her Darling hangs, 

Destined to fall in pride of youthful bloom, 

Then Sorrow claim me thine, thine wholly ! — 
Ne'er 
Shall Mirth's unfeeling smile my cheek pro- 
phage : 
Each look, each thought shall sympathetic share 
The sacred sadness of the Ilou^e of Fain. 

But when the Sufferer's ear is sealed with dust, 
Each struggle past, and closed the tragic tale, 

I'll weep no moment longer, than I musty 

And check those sorrows, which no mere 
avail. 

* Gray, 



72 TOEMS. 



God knows, could tears recall the Saint to life, 
Make fell disease her bloom and strength 
restore, 
Give the fond Husband back his faultless Wife, 
And bid her mourning children mourn no 
more, 

To weep should be my study, pleasure, pride ! 
From sounds of woe my lips should never 
rest ; 
I'd woo pale Sorrow as the loveliest Bride, 
And kiss the hand, with which She stabbed 
my breast : 

In charnel-vaults, with bones I'd form my bed, 
There waste the sleepless night and joyless 
day, 

Rest on that Dear-one's tomb my aching head. 
And wear with ceaseless tears the stone away ! 

Vain wishes, vain regrets! Her thread of days 
Is spun ; The die is cast, the shaft is sped: 

That name, which none e'er mentioned but with 
praise. 
Swells the da J rk records of the virtuous dead : 



POEMS. 13 

By Her unheard these painful sighs ascend, 
By Her unseen this bitter flood I pour : 

Then why with fruitless grief my bosom rend ? 
Why dwell on blessings, which return no 
more ? 

Be calm, ray soul ! Fond rivers, cease to flow ! 

Hush the sad bell, remove the sable bier ; 
I loathe the pomp of ostentatious woe, 

And blame the indulgence of one useless 
tear. 

But come, ye Liberal Arts, and bring your 
train 
Of bright Pursuits, calm Joys, and talents 
rare ! 
Come, Poesy, and waft me once again 

To happier worlds, unknown to guilt or care. 

Come, Painting ; lift on high thy magic wand, 

And pour enchantment on my dazzled sight ! 
Come, Music; wake the Lyre with raptured 
hand, 
Soothe me to peace, or rouze me to delight ! 

1 



74? POEMS. 



Come, social Pleasure ; with thy goblet steal 
My thoughts from musing o'er Death's mourn- 
ful Lists ! 
Come, Friendship ; Let thy converse make me 
feel 
The blest conviction — u Virtue still exists !" — 

And u last, not least," Come, Love ! It's pain 
to sooth, 

Bid round my burning front thy pinions play; 
With gentle hand my scattered tresses smooth, 

And kiss with roseate lips my tears away : 

And for that generous service, gracious Elf, 
Through life I'll bless thee, whose beniguant 
art 

For one sweet moment stole me from myself, 
And poured kind balsam on a wounded Heart* 



POEMS, 75 



TO MY SISTER. 



SENT WITH A RUBY, SET ROUND WITH 
BRILLIANTS. 



To form this ruby, know [what time 
The full moon silvered grove and field] 

The Fairy-Queen by magic rhyme 
Of my best blood a drop congealed t 

Next to compose the circle bright 
Girdling that gem of crimson dye y 

She caught some sparks of pure delight, 
While glittering in my laughing eye. 

This done, Titania formed the ring, 
Which now to you, dear Girl ! I send ; 

No idle toy, no common thing, 

And tendered by no common Friend. 



76 POEMS. 



Know, while these mystic gems are yours, 
That spell at midnight muttered o'er 

By viewless chains my faith secures 
To keep the vow, which now I pour. 

< — u The fellows of this drop shall flow 
In thy defence, while life is mine ; 

And sparks like these my eyes shall show, 
When-e'er they read content in thine."™ 



POEMS. 77 



THE INCONSTANT^ APOLOGY. 



Love, I've lov'd you passing well, 
Loved you long, and loved sincerely : 

How I loral, no tongue can tell, 
'Twas so truly, 'twas so dearly ; 

But my fond delirium o'er, 

Love, adieu ; — We'll love no more. 



When I owned your Beauty's sway, 
All my vows were gospeUtrue, Love; 

That I'm changed, no doubt, you'll say ; 
Ah ! believe me, so are^ow. Love. 

Bloom departing, youth removed, 

You 're no more the love I loved ! 



78 POEMS. 



Can I still the casket prize, 

Whence the Gem by Time is plundered ? 
Can the stalk delight mine eyes, 

Whence the Rose for aye is sundered? 
These possess no charms for Me, 
And alas ! are types of Thee. 



Pouting lip, and melting eye, 

Teeth of pearl, and cheek of roses, 

Limbs that might with Paphia's vie, 
Bosom where delight reposes, 

These the Love I love must show. 

Say, can you^ Love ? — No, Love, No ! 



Now in Aura's blooming form 

Charms, once yours, mine eyes discover •: 
Since my soul they still can warm. 

Wherefore call me Faithless Lover ? 
What You were, and She is now r , 
Still obtains my fervent vow. 



POEMS. 79 



Still my heart remains the same; 

Still it doats on youth and beauty: 
Still [what-e'er their owner's name] 

'Tis to them I pay my duty : 
And where-e'er their charms I see. 
Still their charms have charms for Me. 



Chide no more then : for 1 tow, 
If my heart adores a new love, 

'Tis because She gives me now 

Joys like those, I shared with you. Love. 

Loving Her, I still love you : 

Hark ! She calls me ! — Love, Adieu ! 



POEMS. 



LOVE AND HIS ENEMY. 

pIMITATED FROM FONTENELLE.^ 



'Twas in the Golden Age, ere shame 
Was e'er attached to Pleasure's name. 

But Mortals loved as free as sparrows, 
That Jove heard Cupid thus complain : 
— " I blush o'er none but Slaves to reign, 

" Who kiss my chains, and court my arrows. 



u On nobler Game I fain would try 

u My shafts, and make some Monster die, 

" Whose fall next Mars himself may place 
me ! 
Xi Deign then, imperial Sire, to show, 
xc Where I can find some worthy Foe ; 

" These easy triumphs but disgrace me !" — 






POEMS. SI 

Jove smiled, then bade the Earth unclose, 
And Lo ! before them Honour rose ! 

— u Look/' cried the Sire ; M Your suit 
is granted IV — 
Half-pleased, half-frightened. Love surveyed 
His new-born foe — " Thanks, Jove!*' He said; 

" Here's just the Monster that I wanted !"— 



82 POEMS, 



WAR, VICTORY, AND PEACE. 



War blew his trumpet, and Man cried 
— " Destroy !"— 
Soon yonder hills heard the cannon's loud 

rattle: 
Morn saw the Warriors rush on to the battle, 
Gallant and gay, full of life, full of joy. 
Vanquished and Victors, with blood their 
arms blushing, 
Pant on the plain, now the night-dew descends : 
Fast from their wounds, Lo ! the life-stream 
is gushing ; 
Faster gush tears from the eyes of their Friends. — 



POEMS. 83 



Freighted with Conquest, the Fleet is in 
sight ! — 
Why joins Despair her complaints with our 

praises ? 
Oh ! 'tis a Mother, in frenzy who raises 
Shrieks for her Only-one slain in the fight ! 

She [to our shoutings when cannons replying 
Tell from each fort, that the battle is won] 
Hears in the roarbut her Boy's murmur dying, 
ees in the Hash but the fate of her Son. 

Closed is the contest, and Peace again smiles — 
Why by that Beauty is sorrow still cherished? 
Oh! 'tis a Widow, whose Soldier-love pe- 
rished, 
Struck by that plague, which lays waste the West 
Isles. 
Lost all she valued. War shows her no danger, 
Peace for her broken heart nothing can save : 

She, whose torn bosom to Hope is a stranger, 
Knows of no Peace — but the Peace of the 
Grave ! 



G 2 



84? POEMS. 



NANINE, 



OR, 



THE EMIGRANT. 



On the waves the winds were sleeping, 

Swift ray boat approached the land : 
There I found a Maiden weeping ; 

Who can female tears withstand ? 
Ceased at once my joyous ditty. 

Gently moved my silent oar, 
While I said in sounds of pity, 

— " Pry'thee ; Sweet-heart ; weep no more !"- 



POEMS. SB 



Then on land I sprang so lightly. 

While with mingled hopes and fears 
Raised the Maid her head, and brightly 

Beamed her blue eyes through her tears. 
— " Left exposed to want and danger, 

Friendless on a foreign shore. 
Ah!" She said, " you vainly, Stranger, 

Kindly tell me " weep no more !" 

i( Far from home an exile roving, 

Where shall now my shelter be ? 
Lost each friend so loved, so loving, 

Now what heart shall feel for me ? 
Poor Nanine, thy brain is turning, 

Poor Nanine, thy heart is sore ; 
Poor Nanine, thy tears are burning, 

Die, Nanine, and weep no more 



i»_ 



— u Damsel, mark yon distant city ; 

There my shelter thine shall be ; 
Mark my bosom heaved by pity ; 

There's a heart that feels for thee ! 
All my wealth I here surrender, 

'Tis not gems, nor shining ore : 
? Tis a heart warm, honest, tender. . . • 

Take it y Sweet ; and weep no more." 



86 POEMS. 



Tow'rds my boat I gently led her ; 

Soon it touched my native strand : 
There my labour cloathed and fed her, 

There I gained her heart and hand* 
Still with love my eyes behold her ; 

Yes, though many a year is o'er, 
Still I bless the hour I told her, 

— tc Pry'thee 5 Sweet-heart, weep no more.'-- 

See, she waits me near yon willows ! 

Swift, my boat, to reach her fly, 

See, her breast my baby pillows, 

Transport for a father's eye ! 



Grant, oh ! God, such transports may not 
E'er bless those, who seeing pour 

Tears from female eye-lids, say not, 

— u Pry' thee, Sweet-heart, weep no more l"- 



POEMS. 87 



THE MOTHER'S ALARM. 
["imitated from the greek.] 



With gaudy flowers the cliff was gay; 
Thither a Child had crept to play, 

And o'er the brink was bending. 
The Mother came — she saw her boy ? 
Her only care, her only joy, 

One crag his fall suspending. 



He stretched to reach the flowers below — — 
Ah! should she now to seize him go, 

Some start or hasty action 
Might plunge him headlong in the flood f 
That thought with horror chilled her blood ! 

'Twas anguish ! 'twas distraction! 



POEMS. 



As none but mothers feel, she felt ! 

In trembling silence down she knelt, 

And prayed to Heaven for pity ; 
Then from her breast the gadfee removed, 
And softly sang the tune He loved, 

Some lullabying ditty. 

He knew the song, which oft to rest 

Had charmed his eyes ; He knew the breast, 

Which food so oft had brought him ; 
And still she sang.. ..and still she wept.... 
And near.. ..and nearer. ...crept. ...and crept.*, 

Till to her heart she caught him. 



POEMS. 89 



THE CAPTIVE, 



A SCENE IN A PRIVATE MAD-HOUSE, 



Stay, Gaoler, stay, and hear my woe I 

She is not mad who kneels to thee, 
For what I'm now too well I know, 

And what I was, and what should be. 
I'll rave no more in proud despair; 

My language shall be mild, though sad \ 
But yet I'll firmly, truly swear, 

I am not mad ! I am not mad ! 



90 POEMS. 



My tyrant Husband forged the tale, 

Which chains me in this dismal cell : 
My fate unknown my Friends bewail ; 

Oh ! Gaoler, haste that fate to tell ! 
Oh ! haste my Father's heart to chear : 

His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad 
To know, though kept a Captive here, 

I am not mad ! I am not mad ! 

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ! 

He quits the Grate ! I knelt in Tain ! — 
His glimmering Lamp still. ...still I see! — 

'Tis gone.. ..and all is gloom again ! 
Cold, bitter cold ! — no warmth ! no light !~ 

Life, all thy comforts once I had ; 
Yet here I'm chained this freezing night, 

Although not mad ! No, no ! not mad ! 

'Tis sure some dream ! some vision vain ! — 

What ? /, the Child of rank and w r ealth, 
Am / the wretch, who clanks this chain , 

Bereft of freedom, friends and health ? 
Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled, 

Which never more my heart must glad, 
How aches my heart! how burns my head !- 

But 'tis not mad ! — no ! — 'Tis not mad ! 



POEMS. 91 

Hast thou, my Child, forgot ere this 

A Mother's face, a Mother's tongue ? 
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss, 

Nor round her neck how fast you clung : 
Nor how with Me you sued to stay. 

Nor how that suit your Sire forbad ; 
Nor how. ...I'll drive such thoughts away : 

They'll make me mad! They'll make me mad I 

His rosy lips, how sweet They smiled ! 

His mild blue eyes, how bright They shone I 
None ever bore a lovelier Child ! — 

And art Thou now for ever gone, 
And must I never see thee more, 

My pretty, pretty, pretty Lad ! 
I ziill be free ! unbar the door ! 

I am not mad ! I am not mad t 

Oh! Hark! — what mean those yells and cries? — 

His chain some furious Madman breaks I — 
He comes ! — I see his glaring eyes ! — 

Now, now my dungeon-grate He shakes ! — 
Help, help ! — He's gone ! — Oh ! fearful woe, 

Such screams to hear, such sights to see I 
My brain, my brain ! — I know, I know, 

I am not mad.. ..but soon shall be t 



92 POEMS. 



Yes ! soon ! — For Lo you !.... while I speak.... 

Mark, how yon Daemon's eye-balls glare 1- 
He sees me! — Now with dreadful shriek 

He whirls a Serpent high in air ! — 
Horror !— The Reptile strikes his tooth 

Deep in my heart so crushed and sad! — 
Aye, laugh, ye Fiends ! — I feel the truth ! 

Your task is done! — I'm mad ! I'm mad I 



POEMS. 93 



ADDRESS TO YOUTH. 



— u Turn, wanderer, turn, and rest with me ; 

Let not yon glittering Fane allure you : 
My Temple shall your shelter be, 

My sacred fire from cold secure you : 

" Nor scorn it, though your dazzled sight 
No burst of lustrous fiame surprizes, 

As with mild warmth and lambent light 
It gently on the altar rises. 

" More vivid fires gild yonder shrine, 

More heat and radiance round them casting ; 

But trust me, Youth, though bright they shine, 
Their rage is fierce, their power is blasting. 



94* POEMS. 

4i Ah ! Pilgrim, shun the fatal blaze, 
Thy forward steps forbear to number ; 

The flame, which on my altar plays, 

Gives genial warmth and gentle slumber z 

46 Here Reason as the Priestess stands, 

Here Tranquil Pleasure often lingers,— 

At Friendship's fire then warm thy hands, 
At Love's thou'lt surely burn thy fingers !"- 

Friendship. 



POEMS. 95 



THE FELON. 



Oh ! mark his wan and hollow cheeks, and mark 
his eye-balls glare ! 

And mark his teeth in anguish clenched, the an- 
guish of despair ! 

Know, since three days [his penance done] yon 
Felon left a jail ; 

And since three days no food has past those lips 
so parched and pale. 



96 POEMS. 



— " Where shall I turn," the wretch exclaims; 

< ; where lay my shameful head ? 
How fly from scorn, or how contrive to earn an 

honest bread ? 
This branded hand would gladly toil ; but when 

for work I pray, 
Who sees this mark — U A Felon !" cries, and 

loathing turns away. 

4; My heart has greatly erred, but now would 

fain revert to good ; 
My hand has deeply sinned, but yet has ne'er 

been stained with blood ; 
For work or alms in vain I sue ; the scorners 

both deny : 
I starve! I starve! then what remains? this 

cKoice: To sin, or die. 

w Here, Virtue spurns me with disdain; there, 

Pleasure spreads her snare; 
Strong Habit drags me back to vice ; and urged 

by fierce Despair, 
I strive, while Hunger gnaws my heart, to fly 

from shame in vain : 
World, His thy cruel will! I yield, and plunge 

in guilt again. 



POEMS. 97 



" There's mercy in each ray of light, that mortal 

eyes e'er knew ; 
There's mercy in each breath of air, that mortal 

lips e'er drew ; 
There's mercy both for bird and beas-t in God's 

indulgent plan ; 
There's mercy for each creeping thing, but Man 

has none for Man. 

Ye proudly-honest, when ye heard my wounded 

conscience groan, 
Had liberal hand or feeling heart one glimpse of 

mercy shown, 
That act had made from burning eyes sweet 

tears of virtue roll, 
Had chearcd my heart, had fixed my faith, and 

God had gained a soul. 



II 



98 POEMS. 



THE FATE OF KINGS. 

f WRITTEN ON YISITING A ROYAL MAUSOLEUM.] 



■ i n " Then happy low-lie down 1 
" Uneasy rests the head, that wears a crown." 

Shakspeare. 



Peace to these aisles, through which I pensive 
stray, 
And press with reverent feet the time-worn 
stones, 
Led by yon glimmering Lamp's sepulchral ray, 
Which marks the spot, where rest a Monarch's 
bones. 

Languid and cold, to light, but not to chear, 
Falls the faint gleam upon the tomb below^ 

Like Pity's voice on some lone widow's ear, 
Mocking the majesty of buried Woe ! 



rOEMS. 99 



Here will I pause, our pious requiem pour. 
And greet his exit from Life's tragic stage ; 

Nor ask, what name the exalted sufferer bore ? 
Nor how 'tis blazoned on the historic 
page. 

Whether in Valour's lists He vainly toiled, 
Or Conquest clasped him with her crimson 
hand ; 

Whether tyrannic Pride his purple soiled, 

Or patriot Subjects loved his mild command ; 

Whether, fair Peace, He held thy olive dear, 
Or stretched his power o'er many a bleeding 
state, 
What-e'er his deeds, his station claims a tear ; 
What-e'er his faults, his griefs were sure a3 
great. 

Treason's chief Victim, Policy's prime Tool, 

Feared by the Weak, Derided by the Strong, 
Jest of the Stoic, Envy of the Fool, 

When right the Nation's Slave, the Nation's 
Curse when wrong ; 
H 2 



100 POEMS. 



His Crown, a burning band which sears his 
brain ; 

His power, a bubble the next hour may burst; 
His life, a glittering web of pomp and pain. 

Gorgeously wretched, and supremely curst ; 

Of all their lots, whose threads the sisters spin, 
None sadder than a King's, Reflection views : 

Life shows him nothing He can wish to win, 
And bids him only breathe to fear, and lose ! 

Low in the heavens may sink his Star of Fate, 
But ne'er can hope in loftier course to move : 

His couch may shine the burning throne of Hate, 
But ne'er can bloom the roseate bovver of Love. 

He bids no flame in virtuous bosom rise ; 

He forms no plan of fond connubial bliss : 
He reads no chaste consent in down-cast eyes, 

Nor thanks the Trembler with a blameless kiss : 

Unknown her virtues, undesired her charms, 
Comes his unwilling Bride to share his chains ; 

Cold Policy conducts her to his arms, 
>And angry Love to bless his bed disdains. 



POEMS, 101 



'Tis his, to life when trembling Wretches cling, 
Whose worldly guilt despairs of heavenly bliss, 

With fatal breath the untimely shaft to wing, 
And drive them shuddering down the dread 
abyss : 

? Tis his, to hear Contrition plead in vain. 
To crush the last poor hope on Mercy built, 

Yet still each sigh suppress, each tear restrain. 
For grief is weakness, when to spare were guilt. 

Lo ! for her culprit-husband kneels a Wife ! 

Hark ! for a Child a Father pours his prayer ! 
But Justice claims the Felon's forfeit life, 

And though He c«;z,theMonarch must not spare. 

He signs the bond of blood with pain severe ; 

But does not Friendship then allay the smart ? 
Lends She not, while He mourns her gracious ear? 

Heals not her sympathy his wounded heart ? 

Alas ! No Friend has He ! — No tear He finds 
Mix with the stream,which from his eye-lid rolls; 

He knows no intercourse of equal minds, 
No kind expansion of congenial souls. 



102 POEMS. 



Or is there midst his Followers One, whom best 
His partial eye and springing heart approve ? 

Lock, royal Wretch, the secret in your breast. 
Nor bid distinction damn the Man you love! 

The Sovereign's Friend is still the People's hate ; 

Whom Kings still favour. Subjects still re- 

vile. 

Rise, Shade of B — ! Thy mystic tale relate, 

And say, what blessings followed G — 's smile. 

Thou best canst tell, — <; none more for insult 
born, 
Than Him none branded more with public 
shame, 
Who bears (he Courtier's hate, the Nation's 
scorn, 
The Favourite's office, and the Minion's 
name." — 

Vet much a Friend He needs, who born to 
reign 

Is born the prey of Rapine, Vice, and Art ; 
While Pomp and Power unite to lire his brain, 

And Pride and Passion to mislead his heart. 



POEMS. 103 



Lo ! round his throne what hideous Phantoms 
throng ! — 
There wild Ambition bids his firebrands 
glare ! 
There leering Flattery pours her Syren song! 
The rank witch Luxury plants her nightshade 
there ! 

And there Suspicion rolls her eagle eye, 

Weighs every word, and starts at every 
breath ; 
And Treason there in robes of varying dye, 
Through paths mysterious guides the spectre 
Death! 

Nor hope, fond Monarch, by thy Subjects blest, 
Their grateful arms will guard thy valued life > 

Thy martial fame appal the Assassin's breast, 
Thy patriot virtue blunt his brandished knife : 

Could Valour aught avail, or Public. Love, 
France had not mourned Navarre's brave 
Henry slain ; 

If wit or beauty might compassion move, 
The Rose of Scotland had not wept in vahw 



104 POEMS* 



Prayers of a People, Voice of bright Renown, 
Fair eyes and honied lips, ye vainly plead ; 

Doomed to support that glittering curse, a 
Crown, 
Alike the Hero and the Beauty bleed ! 

— w Yet mark these martial bands around me 
placed ; 
" Observe my palace strictly watched and 
barred!"— 
Vain Man ! in Friendship's garb, with favour 
graced, 
Fate lurks within, and mocks thy doubled 
guard ! 

Thy trusted Servant, mklst thy Foes enrolled, 
To drug thy bowl employs his baleful art ; 

Thy favourite Mistress, bribed with foreign gold, 
Waits but thy sleep to pierce thy doating heart : 

And Lo! thy darling Son [most false of Friends! J 
By dire Ambition steeled against remorse, 

Tears from thy brow the crown, thy throne as- 
cends, 
Nor doubts to mount by trampling on thy corse. 



POEMS. 105 



Heard'st thou that sound ? — Earth trembles! 
Meteors glare ! 
Red glows the Moon, as charmed by Sorcerer's 
verse T 
Ocean rolls back ! Fiends wing the lurid air ! — - 
Knew'st Thou that sound ? — It was a Father's 
curse ! 

Yon crazy Bark, so swift which flies the land, 
Thence came the word, which Nature hears 
with fright : 

High on the deck see royal Stuart stand, 
And fix on Albion's fading rocks his sight. 

From Friends, from home, from all his soul holds- 
dear, 

In foreign climes to waste his closing day, 
Ambitious Daughters drive this second Lear; — 

But no Cordelia wipes his tears away ! 

Gushes the flood fast from the Exile's lids ; 

Stream his grey locks wild in the winds of night; 
And now he rends them in despair., and bids 

Heaven's bitterest curse on his proud daughters 
light! 



106 POEMS. 



— u Ye shames of Nature !" thus the Monarch 
cries, 
" Your Father 1 oaths the hour, when breath 
ye drew ! 
What-e'er my faults in angry Britain's eyes. 
Usurping Harpies, I have none to you. 

u And must your Sire now stray from court to 
court 
A royal Beggar, bowed with age and woes ? 
Must foreign alms his irksome life support, 
And foreign hands in death his limbs com- 
pose ? 

cc Ah ! while this last sad image fills your sight, 
Does not accusing guilt your souls dismay ? -r 

Cold as the Moon-beams which direct my flighty 
Deaf as the seas which bear my bark away, 

iC Say, can ye calmly still my anguish view, 
And calmly still a Father's faults condemn ? 

Still are ye deaf ? — When at thy feet they sue, 
Judge of the world, be Thou as deaf to 
them! 



POEMS. 10*7 



u l curse ye, Snakes ! — Alike of Foe and Friend 
May doubt and dread your cankering souls 
devour ; 

May civil broils your kingdom's bosom rend, 
And foreign wars destroy your Nation's flower: 

H On earth be wretched, and of heaven despair ! 
Changed be your good to ill, your bad to- 
worse ! 
And ne'er may child of your's survive to wear 
That crown, you purchased with your Father's 
curse * !" — 

He said ! — Heaven heard the prayer of regal woe ! 

Lo! Mary's hand a barren sceptre waves ; 
While Anne but teems, 4; how Mother's love.'* 
to know, 
See her sweet Blossoms fall, and languish o'er 
their graves +. 

* James the lid. sent Q^Mary word, that if she suffered 
herself to be crowned, he should leave her his dying 
curse.— v. Dalrymple's Memoirs. 

f " The Queen attributes the loss of her children to the 
dethroning of her father; having been very sensibly 
touched by an affecting letter which he wrote to her 
before his death.''— Schutz's Letter to Bothmar, Sept* 
29> 1713- 



108 POEMS. 



While such the pangs which purple robes en- 
fold, 
While griefs like these a Sovereign's peace 
devour, 
Should Hate or Envy follow those, who hold 
This sad pre-eminence of painful power ? 

Far be from me such thoughts ! - My heart to 
stone 
Perhaps may change, while Hunger vainly 
pleads ; 
Mine ear may coldly list the Maniac's moan, 
Nor my tears How, though virtuous Beauty 
bleeds : 

But while my breast one feeling throb supplies, 
And while one pitying drop these lids con- 
tain, 

Oh ! sceptred Grief, a sigh for thee shall rise, 
And a tear trickle on thy golden chain. 

Lord of all life ! Fountain of good and ill! 

If thorniest paths must guide me to my bier, 
My neck shall humbly bow beneath thy will, 

Nor one proud murmur term that will severe : 



POEMS. 109 

With aches and anguish rack each quivering limb, 
Crush this poor frame, and rob these orbs of 
sight ; 

Bid Slander's breath my fame's pure mirror dim, 
And freezing want hope's lovely harvest blight. 

Make me, of all who drink Heaven's vital air, 
The poorest, lowliest, vilest, saddest thing! — 

My load of griefs w r ith patience still I'll bear, 
And thank my God, I was not born a King! 



THE END. 




BY THE SAME AUTHOR- 



1. Ambrosio, or the Monk, a Romance^ 

S vols. 

2. The Bravo of Venice, Ditto. 

3. Romantic Tales, 4 vols* 

4. Tales of Wonder. 

5. The Love of Gain, a Satire, imitated from 

Juvenal. 
€. The Castle Spectre, a Drama, performed 
at Drury Lane. 

7. The Minister, a Tragedy, from the Ger- 
man. 

S. Adelmorn the Outlaw, an Opera, per- 
formed at Drury Lane. 

9. Venoni, or the Novice of St. Mark's, a 
Drama, performed at Drury Lane. 

10. Rugantino, or the Bravo of Venice, a 
Melo-Drama, performed at Co?ent Gar- 
den. 



112 

11. The East-Indian, a Comedy, performed at 

Drury Lane, 

12. AlfoxNSO, King of Castile, a Tragedy, 

performed at Coven t Garden. 

13. Adelgitha, or the Fruits of a Single 

Error, a Tragedy, performed at Drury 
Lane. 

34. One o'Clock, or the Knight and the 
Wood Djemo.v, an Opera, performed at 
the Lyceum. 



SIIURY, PRINTER, BERWICK STREET, LONDON* 









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